


In the Spine

by Castiel_Left_His_Mark_On_Me



Series: Destiel Feels [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Castiel-centric, Demons, Dreams, Fallen Castiel, Heartbreak, Human Castiel, Letters, Love Letters, M/M, Original Character Death(s), Post-Canon, Secrets, Supportive Sam, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2018-03-05 07:02:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3110474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castiel_Left_His_Mark_On_Me/pseuds/Castiel_Left_His_Mark_On_Me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam finds an old letter that Dean wrote for Castiel.<br/>
<br/>
<a href="http://s358.photobucket.com/user/worksbysenorajane/media/tumblr_nu6ghobVY21tiq7lqo1_1280_zpsba0gi4x6.jpg.html"></a><img/><br/>
Art by:<a href="kawasemichan.tumblr.com/"> Kawasemichan</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Spine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LunaStories](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaStories/gifts).



> A prompt from the beautiful Lunastories ...

> _Hey Cas,_

 

           He reads it in his voice. It’s low and rumbling—but constant, like thunder echoing over fields.  He reads the two, little words and it’s as if the man is there again; like he could be walking through the door, holding a case of beer, ready to start the next hunt. If only there could have been a _next hunt_. If only there could be another person to drink the beer in that fridge, but there’s not, and there isn’t. Sam keeps buying the twelve packs, saying it’s for the other hunters that drop by on occasion. He’s their new “Bobby” now; so ragged men and women will stop in whenever they’re stumped; and when they do, there is always plenty of beer, because Sam buys it, even though he doesn’t drink it anymore. He says he’s getting too old to “toss one back” every night, but Castiel thinks the man just doesn’t feel right drinking without his brother by his side.  A bottle seems naked without Dean’s hand wrapped around it. They all seem naked now.

 

 

> _I don’t know why I’m writing this. Sam was just spouting off how writing stuff down can be therapeutic or some bullshit. I guess it stuck in my head. Anyway, here I am, scribbling on the back of some news articles we printed out for this vamp case … I’m wasting perfectly, good ink on something you’re never going to read, because I’m too chicken shit to let you. I’m sorry for that. I’m sorry for a lot of things._

 

           Castiel sets the papers down on the table. He doesn’t know if he can do this. He doesn’t know if he can make _these_ words, Dean’s _last._ The man didn’t intend for these to be the final things he told him, not that he had much choice in the end. None of them had a choice—the truth is, there were too many screams to hear the last phrases to curl on Dean’s tongue. There was too much chaos for any of them to comprehend what they were doing, or what they _should_ have been saying. Sam was fighting tooth and nail, not even realizing that a demon had sunk a blade into Dean’s chest; but Castiel had turned just in time. He remembers hearing the sickening _slick_ as the blade passed through his friend’s skin. He remembers the dribble of blood that spurt through his lips. The former angel remembers how the man’s eyes slowly dragged to him, and they almost seemed to smile. Those eyes that were as green as the fields his father created. Those eyes that held a thousand words when Castiel could not even think of _one_ … those eyes that meant everything to him—they _smiled_ , and then flickered dark. Those eyes lost their light while locked on his. Yes, he remembers too much from that day, but not words. _Never words._

          Dean’s neat, tightly knit writing calls to him from the pages—beckoning for him to look. He relents and reaches down to feel the edges of the parchment. Its weight ... it’s so much less than what Dean was, but it’s all he is now: a few pieces of paper with some ink on it. But Castiel picks them up anyway and continues to read, because the words on those papers want him to, _Dean_ wants him to, and he always has done everything Dean asks of him.

 

 

> _I really don’t know how to write this. I’ve never really been good with words. You know me, I’d much rather share a beer in peace and quiet instead of filling the air with feelings. But, I got a beer next to me right now, and this motel is pretty, damn, quiet, so I guess it’s not too different. So, here we go … Cas, you are strange, and clueless and can piss me off like no other sometimes, but you are the best friend I’ve ever had. Don’t tell Sam, but I think I can depend on you more. Somehow, I know that you know me. You get me. You know that  the shit I say isn’t always what I mean; and the shit I do, well ... most of the time, that’s a mistake. But you know me and you get that, and apparently, you don’t seem to care because you stick around. I honestly don’t know why you stick around._

          

        “For you, you ass” Cas grumbles, feeling something knot in his throat. He hasn’t spoken to Dean in eight years; yet, doing so now seems so natural. Nothing’s changed. He’s still _sticking around,_ trying to knock some sense into the man.

 

 

> _It doesn’t matter why, though. I need to keep telling myself that. I don’t need to question everything so much. Maybe I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop, so I ask enough questions to find out when that’s going to happen. But there is no other shoe with you, Cas. You’re like a guy with one foot._

           He can’t help but look up and chuckle. Dean was never great with metaphor, not intentionally anyway. Writing his words down obviously had no effect on his grasp of imagery.

 

 

> _This is stupid. I really don’t know why I’m writing this or why I keep writing this, or, why I am even writing down this thought, right now. I guess, I just wish I could talk to you, man. I wish that I could pray to you and you could hear me, but that doesn’t seem to be the case anymore. I know you don’t think so, but I like praying to you. It’s easier than talking or trying to get my point across to anyone else. I pray to you, you show up, and you know how to help. Like I said, I can depend on that … I can depend on you._

          

          They well up in his eyes, the _human-tears_ that he’s still not accustomed to. Even though he’s been one for quite some time now, he will never get used to the pain and hurt—not in this form. He doesn’t want to. But reading this letter, hearing how his best friend thought he could depend on him? Well, the tears come, and he doesn’t care when they do. He deserves all the pain in the world. The man depended on him and he let him down. Even though he was a _weak_ angel at the time, he was _still_ an angel; and he should have been protecting his charge. Even after he rushed over, stabbing the murderous demon in the back—casting its tattered meat aside … even after he thrashed down on his knees and collected Dean in his arms—pressing his palms against the man’s cheeks, his forehead, his chest—everywhere to try and _heal_ , to try and save him, to rebuild him, to make him what he was, what he always would be, he was just _too weak_. Castiel, the-great-angel-of-the-lord couldn’t even bring back the one human he was created to save. And as if death weren’t enough, God decided to take away his last, fleeting bits of hope in order to truly, deepen the wound. The angel was cut off from heaven. He summoned, he shouted, he prayed, but no answers came. Sam turned to hell and to Crowley, but no deals were made. They couldn’t even be sure of where Dean’s soul had gone, and that perhaps, is his greatest failure. The truest soul to ever grace time, is now lost, and he has no way to find it. The tears drip down, and he doesn’t wipe them away.

 

 

> _You know, it’s funny. When we first met, I tried to kill you; well … you know that, you were kind of there when I stabbed you. You scared the hell out of me, man! You walked into that barn, busting out all the lights and flashing your shadowy wings—it was fucking terrifying. But somehow, even then, I couldn’t help but be amazed by you. I still am. Not because you’re an angel or because of how strong you are, (and we both know that you’re pretty, fucking strong) but by how weak you’re willing to get for the things you believe in … for me. I feel so selfish for holding on to that. You have lost so much over me, man. Your friends in heaven, some of your strength, allies from all over—you tossed them aside so you could be down here and pal around with my human-ass. I guess I’m amazed at how stupid you are, too. But, damn, if I’m not glad that you threw your life away to be here! I can say that because I’m planning on burning this paper as soon as I’m done with it. So you will never know just how shitty of a person I’m being right now. I am so glad you stayed, man. Even though I have no fucking clue where you are at the moment, I feel it in my gut, you’ll be back. And that’s a pretty kickass feeling to have._

 

           The sound of the door knob turning pulls him away. Sam walks in, holding an armful of books, laced with papers and files sticking out of every corner. “Hey, Cas.”

           Castiel quickly rubs the wet streaks from his cheeks, clearing his throat to break up the lump that’s rolled its way in. “Hello, Sam.”

           The tall Winchester bustles down the stairs and into the study where Cas is sitting, setting down the stack on the table and shaking out his arms. He looks at his friend and nods towards his hands, “You read it yet?”

           Castiel drops back to the papers he’s gripping and shakes his head, “Not all of it, no.”

           Sam sighs and stays silent a moment, finally breaking a half smile and resting his palm on the books in front of him. “Well, I’m going to take these into my room and brush up on some things. Holler if you need me, alright?”

           “Of course, Sam. Thank you.”

           In another instant, the man’s fading footsteps are echoing throughout the bunker. Castiel exhales the breath he’s been holding, wondering how long he should stay here this time. He drops in every so often to check on Sam, but his visits have been getting shorter, because Dean’s room is getting dustier. The kitchen is getting messier, and he can all but see Dean’s face grimace with every one of Sam’s dirty dishes that remains in the sink. The bunker was kept up for a while;  but as the years passed and Sam grew busier,  he let things go. The former angel sips in another long, labored breath, and looks back down to the yellowed, pages, crisscrossed with fold marks—some so worked in that the letter is actually splitting. Dean obviously didn’t burn it, and Castiel can’t help but wonder why.

 

 

> _I think, no … I know, you’re the only person I’ve ever needed to have around ... who wasn’t currently, dying. I  suppose you could say, I need Sam, but that’s different somehow. He’s my brother, so needing him around is obvious. But you? Something my mother always said was that angels were watching over me, I can’t remember if I ever told you that, but that’s what she said. I really don’t know if she knew how right she was. I thought it was just something that mothers say—turns out, she was giving me a head’s up. I needed angels to watch over me, or, at least one. One, specific angel. I needed you, Cas. And I’ve needed you ever since. I need you in order to feel heard, and so I know that Sam will always be okay, even if I’m not around. I need you to be there, even when it sort of grates on my nerves that you just pop up at random. I need you to wear that stupid coat, and to look like you, and to stare like your eyes forgot how to fucking, blink. I hate that I need you because, you know it. You know how hopeless I am. You must feel a shit-ton of obligation towards me to stick around and take all the crap I throw at you. I’m so sorry for making you lose that rock-solid, angel covering that made everything slide off; because now, you’re vulnerable. Now, I see the hurt I cause you and it fucking kills me. So, here I am, being a selfish bastard and saying I need you, even though it’s literally wrecking everything you are. But, I do need you, and I can try to be a better person later, but right now, since you’ll never set eyes on this. I fucking need you. Cas._

           His, deep, blue eyes are wide, exposing the halos of white surrounding them. He’s hunched forward; his elbows are digging into the cherry, oak of the table—they shake as they hold him up. He feels heavy and sick. The little swoops and curves of Dean’s words dance around the page, only swirled further by the water line that’s blurring his vision. He feels his heart thrum and thrash in his veins, as if it’s worked its way up to burst from his neck. _He can’t ..._ Dean _can’t_ be saying this. _Not now_ …

 

 

> _I suppose the only selfless thing I can do, is to not hold you back. I won’t tell you any of this because I know that it’ll change things. It will make things worse. You’ll want to make it okay. You’ll tell me that it’s alright to need people. You’ll probably say some shit like “That’s why humans are so important, Dean, because they rely on one another.” You will say that shit and I’ll have to turn away, because even though you know that I need you, you don’t understand how. I would honestly, love to explain it to you sometime. It’s probably a little pathetic how often I think about that—sitting you down and explaining just what it is that’s burning a hole in my gut every time you’re around. Your face would probably be priceless. I have no clue what you would say after that, but seeing those giant, fucking eyes, blow out when you finally get it … when you finally understand what I’m trying to say. It makes me laugh … then, well, it makes me really pissed off that I’ll never actually get to see it. But, like I said, it’s about the only selfless thing I can do anymore._

           “Why didn’t you tell me?” His words barely have sound to them. They are hollow and frameless, like dissipating smoke in the air. Castiel drops the letter back down, as if it burns to the touch. He shoves himself from his seat and powers across the room, not knowing where he’s going or why, just that he has to _move_. Move or else he’ll explode. The tears seem to dry as frustration bubbles through his pores. He stomps back across the study, shoving the chairs as he does. They skid and skip across the cement floor; one catches on the edge of the rug and falls over. Castiel stops, looking at the seat on the ground. He deflates, feeling the anger slip down his sides into a puddle beneath his shoes. The chair is soon upright once more, lined neatly along it’s brethren at the edge of the table. He waits a moment, wondering if Sam will come out to see if everything’s alright. The hallway remains empty. Castiel returns to the pages.

 

 

> _I can’t believe I’m even going to write this after just writing all that (I’m basically every chick in every romance movie right now) but, I had a dream about you the other night. Well, about us. It wasn’t anything too mushy. I don’t think even my subconscious can handle that shit; but it was nice … a lot nicer than I’ll ever actually get. You and I got to sit on that dock, you remember? The same one I was fishing on the last dream you visited me in. At first, I thought that’s what was going on. I thought you were just invading my dreams again, and I was kind of pissed. But then you told me that you were happy I was there, and you said that we should do that more often … just sit together by the water. I agreed. And that’s what we did, we sat there and you looked at me, and you smiled. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile like that, so I don’t know how I could dream it, but I’d love to see you actually smile that way sometime. It was so easy. You were so relaxed and you seemed really, really happy. And I knew, the only way to keep you happy was to talk to you. So I told you everything, and you understood; and then you said that you felt the same. Then we just sat there some more, looking at the bugs jump along the water, and you even held my hand for a bit. It was calm, and there were no monsters, and you were happy … it was perfect._

 

          It _would_ have been perfect _._ It would have been everything he wanted and more. Castiel shoves the letter away and drops his face into his sweating palms. He wants to hold Dean’s hand, but all he can truly touch of the man are these papers; and their thin edges will surely slice him to ribbons.

 

> _When I finally woke up, I was praying to you. I don’t know how I was doing it, but I opened my eyes and I was saying your name, and asking you to come back. I told myself later that it was just because we could really use your help right now, but that’s not it. Not after that dream, and that smile … that wasn’t it at all._   

           “Are you okay, man?”

           Sam’s voice shocks him upright, so quick he doesn’t even have time to clean off his face. Sam catches sight of his tears and Castiel slumps, turning away so the man can’t stare anymore. He hates looking weak in front of him. Ever since Dean … he has tried to fill in. He has tried to be the sturdy rock for Sam to lean upon. Although, he knows that he probably did most of the leaning. He feels Sam’s hand slide onto his shoulder. It sits there, easing him with its weight and warmth. Castiel is thankful for it, because it’s the only thing holding him up.

           “You know where I found that letter, right? I told you that?”

           Castiel wipes his eyes, shaking his head as he does.

           “It was folded up and slipped into the spine of Dad’s journal. I’m honestly surprised I never noticed it before, but I guess whenever I look at that thing, I’m always in a rush to find what I need.” Sam laughs, giving Castiel a squeeze. “It’s not like it’s my go-to choice for light reading.”

           He glances a placating smile, even though Sam can’t see it.

           “It was a lucky thing I dropped it the other day. That old leather finally gave out. So when it busted, and the pages went flying everywhere, I found _that_ wadded thing poking out from the seams.” Sam lets his hand fall. “When I saw your name at the top, I folded it back up right away. I knew it wouldn’t be right for me to read it.”

           Castiel shudders, almost wishing the man _had_ read it—he could have just summarized the message. It would have hurt less. It wouldn’t feel as if Dean were here, pulling tightly at bands that were only going to yank him out of sight again. He doesn’t want to finish reading. If he does, Dean will _really_ be gone.

           “Do you want to talk about it?” Sam asks, sounding softer but sincere.

           Castiel shakes his head. “No” he whispers, unevenly. “No thank you.”

           He hears the man sigh. “Alright.  I, umm … I'm around if you change your mind.”

           “I know, I appreciate that.”

           “I’m serious though, Cas. It’s been a long time, but I know how things like _this_ can make it seem as if it all just happened. Things like this …” Sam’s voice dips and cuts out. “Things like this don’t ever leave us.”

           He turns, finally feeling strong enough to face the man. Sam isn’t looking at him. His normally large frame appears broken and small. It’s Castiel’s turn to be comforting. He reaches out and rubs the boy’s arm, because that is how he looks now—like the little boy Dean always thought him to be ... innocent and too full of feeling. He sees why the older Winchester fought so hard to protect him. This child is all the goodness that humans were intended to be. Sam is the only reason he’s made it this far, and he _needs_ to guard him. He needs to not let Dean down.

           “I am here for you as well, Sam. Whatever you need, you call, and I will be here.”

           Sam smiles, and then his smile grows, bursting into a grin. His large body shakes as a chuckle spurts out—morphing into bouts of unrestrained laughter. Castiel drops his touch, cocking his head a little, in awe of the now, vibrating man in his view. Sam wheezes, doubling over with his hands on his knees.

           “Sam, what is—”

           “Sorry! Sorry …” Sam gasps, still laughing but finally, straightening out and wiping away the joyful tears. He takes another deep breath as he waves off Castiel’s concerned gestures. “I just thought about your _‘profound bond’_. I was so, fucking pissed at you man!” He laughs again and Castiel is still struggling to see how any of this is funny. “I had called you so many times! Not just then either, like _always!_ And you pretty much _always_ ignored me for Dean!” He erupts a third time. Castiel has to smile by association; he doesn’t know what else to do. “I mean, _I got it_ and all—you pulled him out of hell … well, me too but _him_ first. Still, it’s been like, _how many years?_ And I finally get you to come when I call!” he coughs with his final chortles, slapping his hand on Castiel’s shoulder once more. “I appreciate it man!”

           He feels a twinge of guilt, knowing that everything Sam said is true. He _did_ ignore his prayers most of the time. He told himself then it was because the man either had no soul, or he was too riddled with demon blood, or, that he had enough confidence in Sam’s wits that he didn’t need to go rushing to his aid. All his reasons were valid to a degree, but they didn’t negate the fact that as soon as Dean opened his mouth, Castiel would be there without question.

           “I’m so sorry, Sam.” His words are far too sober and instantly dry out Sam’s drunken hysterics.

           “Hey, _no_ … no, Cas. I didn’t mean it like that. I swear. It _was_ sort of annoying at the time, but really … I’m so happy that you were there for my brother. You were there all the times I couldn’t be. If you had always come when _I_ called, you might not have been around when _he_ needed you. We might have lost him a lot sooner if you tried to help us both.”

           Castiel feels himself pull towards the floor, finally losing his fight with the weight of everything bearing down on him. He breaks, slumping back into his chair and choking on quiet sobs. It’s the first time he’s come undone since it happened. He has never allowed himself. His angel-strong conviction lasted long after the grace had left, and it kept the cracks mended, placing patches every couple of years to ensure that everything holds; but Sam's sentiment is a wrecking ball. And now Castiel is shivering into this chair, unable to stop it—this human anomaly. He’s losing grip and giving in, eight years too late. Sam drops to his knees and wraps his immense arms around his friend, letting the blue eyes cry until the seams of his shirt are damp with stale tears.

***

           It was three hours before he could return to the table. He had to go outside, take a walk … watch the bees. Once he finally calmed, and convinced the younger Winchester that he was alright, he went back to finish what he’d started, collecting the tired pages and straightening them together. He only had one left. Only one more speech to hear from lips that stilled long ago. He wants to stop and pack the paper away, keep it in a glass case so the words will be trapped … so they will never have to leave; but he owes Dean more than that. He owes him some strength, since all his other power has faded—the power that could have kept him alive.

 

 

> _I wish I could find that dock in real life. I would sit at it and fish a little bit, and I’d wait around to see if you showed. I have a feeling that you would. Like that’s the only place where you would really be able to hear me right now. I wish you could hear me. Where are you, man? Are you alright? I swear to God, if something happened to you … I don’t know what I’m going to do. I need you to be okay. I feel like you are; you’re probably  just wrapped up in something that you either don’t want me to know about, or that you want to protect me from. I feel like you’re okay … somehow, I always know. But I still wish you would come back. You don’t even have to tell me where you’ve been. I promise, I won’t ask … well, not right away. You know me. I’ll eventually have to know. But if you come back, I won’t hassle you. I just want you here. I want to talk to you and tell you about things. I know you’ll listen and you’ll care about the stuff that I care about. Even if you don’t understand it, you’ll ask me questions like “Who is Floyd and why is he Pink?” Oh man, I about pissed myself over that one! I can’t remember the last time I laughed so hard. Well, actually, I can. It was with you. When you watched me eating a Twinkie, like I might as well be sucking on a goat. Your amazement over that kind of little shit always cracks me up. Really, I think the only times I laugh anymore are when you’re around. I know you’re not trying, but thank you, Cas. Thank you for always managing to put a smile on my stupid face. Thank you for always making me laugh when all I want to do is scream, and cut something’s head off. Thank you for all the times you’ve showed up, even when I thought I wanted to be alone. When you appeared behind me in the bathroom, or sat next to me on that motel bed, it was like I was safe. When you pulled me back from that fucked-up future Zachariah sent me to … you always  show up, and you make me smile. Thank you for being constant. You’re the only thing that’s never left me for long, or that I’ve had to push away. And even if I did push, you would only push back about a thousand times harder. I won’t ever be able to get rid of you, and nothing in this shitty existence that I’ve had makes me feel better than knowing that. That is what I hold on to whenever I’m looking at the edge of a blade or at jagged claws, ready and willing to tear me apart. I think about you and how no matter what, you’re there. I think about how all I have to do is say your name and, in a blink, I got my angel. She said angels were watching over me. So whenever I feel like it’s all about to end, I look to you, and I smile, because you’re the happiest ending I could ever think of._

          

           He flips the paper over … the words stopped. On the other side is an article about several disappearances near Boston, but no more words. “No …” _That can’t be it!_ He looks back through the other pages, hoping to see more scribbles in the margins, or below the headlines _. There’s nothing._ Castiel swallows hard as his eyes dart back and forth across the room. He feels dizzy, like he’s just been dropped off a ledge. The man’s final sentence sways softly on the paper, waving goodbye as it halts, not having another line to go to. _He should have known._ He should have known Dean wouldn’t finish a letter in the traditional way. He probably wouldn’t know how, nor would he want to. The Winchesters never approached finality with open arms. They fought it back, slashing and hacking, always buying themselves more time. Dean wouldn’t finish a letter because, he doesn’t like it when things are over. It makes sense that he would stop. He probably sucked in the last drops of his beer and set down the pen, searching his mind for anything else he wanted to say; and when he came up blank, he just folded the pages together, hiding them away so no one would ever see. Maybe he thought he’d come back to them, or maybe he just liked the idea of thinking he could. That’s why he didn’t burn it to ash—he has had to burn so many things in his life; his _honesty_ shouldn’t have been one of them.

           Castiel places his trembling hand upon the last page, letting his fingers trace the letters as more tears gear up to fall. He stops, flipping it over, not wanting to break down again. The news article glares at him, and he lets himself read the blocked words, hoping they’ll distract from the wrecking-ones on the other side. The report lists the names of the missing. It gives detailed descriptions of their appearances, where they were last seen. It displays witness accounts and presumes suspects, none of which were probably the actual culprit. Dean said they were on a vampire hunt, so most likely, the police were off the mark by about a mile. His curiosity peaks, thinking about how the man must have scoured these pages. He must have memorized every single word until it was bricked in his mind. Dean’s memory was amazing, and one of the many qualities that inspired Castiel whenever he was around him. His exhausted, blue eyes pretend to be green, searching each line for import—as if the day still needed saving. He lets his gaze cast back to the top, reading the headline and then the name of the author. He looks at the heading, his eyes curve with the words before finally sauntering over to the corner, where they stop, expanding on the finely printed date that graces the top of the page.

 

           _Thursday, April 7th, 2011._

 

           _Four years._ Four years _before_ he died. Four years before he was killed, taken away forever without any means of bringing him back—he wrote _this_. Four years before he fell to the floor in that warehouse ... his pen scratched at these pages. He wrote this four years before the last bit of light seeped from his eyes. These faded words formed four years before he turned to Castiel, blood pouring from his chest, spitting from his mouth … to lock him in his gaze … and he let his last bit of life smile at him; that is when he wrote this letter. For _four years,_ he had _intention_ behind every touch and every hug, behind every prolonged stare. When he was upset with him, Dean’s words had _more_ than hurt strung between their spaces. All the times he said they were like family, _for four years_ —he didn’t mean it in the way he meant it with Sam. For four years, he meant that Castiel was the type of family he could only ever _dream_ of having. He was the family he could _choose._ _He_ was the one Dean could think about and always go back to. For four, long, agonizing, oblivious years, Castiel thought that all the times the man said “I need you” he meant something else. He thought he meant that he needed his help, or his friendship or even his guidance. For four of the best years of his life, Castiel was wrong.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I was inspired greatly by the poem written from the talented whelvenwings, titled "I Miss Him" also here on Ao3. I recommend you read it. It is so beautiful and will make you cry in ways only good poetry can.
> 
> Did you like what you read? If so, then please **SUPPORT THE STORIES**
> 
> Find me on Tumblr: castiel-left-his-mark-on-me. Please take a look at my other works as well ... many more feels, hottness and angst!


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